


I Don't Know How We're Just Two Men As God Had Made Us

by cxhztile



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020)
Genre: Awkward Dates, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, i'm blanking on other tags but, yassen is little and weird and we love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxhztile/pseuds/cxhztile
Summary: Sometimes expecting the unexpected includes... Tending a known assassin's wounds, only for him to later interrupt you during lunch and ask you to dinner another time. And what can you do? Repay him with breakfast, that's what you can do.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	I Don't Know How We're Just Two Men As God Had Made Us

**Author's Note:**

> the [girlfriend](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com) made me watch alex rider and now i'm attached to the goth little russian assassin. title is, of course, from ["you know what they do to guys like us in prison"](https://youtu.be/ShQdOf2zAzc%22) because Homoeroticism.

**January 2007**

**Birmingham, UK**

Admittedly, he was… Dazed and confused. His vision was hazy and he could feel hot liquid streaking down his exposed shoulder, warming and barring the skin from the chill in the air, and some was even dripping down his upper lip. Any time he tried to glance at his arm, the colors were blending together enough that he could barely make out the crimson color of the wetness or the olive tone of his skin. He knew better than to sit around letting a wound fester, in a public space no less, but his feet— the entirety of his legs, in fact— felt weighted down with lead, and his brain was growing more swampy by the minute, threatening to flash white dots around the edges of his peripheral. He had put up a good fight and did his job well, sure, but that wasn’t going to stop his current nausea or the dizziness that was beginning to spin his head. So, against his better judgement, he continued to sit there with his back pressed to the base of the Boer memorial statue at Cannon Hill Park and closed his eyes, letting nearby bird songs ring in his ears. 

It appeared he had fallen asleep— or worse, actually fainted— because he had no memory from closing his eyes to being shaken into consciousness after an immeasurable amount of time. Whoever shook him was crouched before him and had moved their hands up from his biceps to his face, no doubt poking and prodding to make sure he hadn’t lost too much blood from his gash and the smaller slices across his body that he could hardly feel. They chuckled when his brows knitted together in confusion and dropped a hand to rifle through a duffel bag he hadn’t realized was hanging at their side. Their other hand steadied his head when it tried to lull to the side towards his shoulder, shifting his cheek into their palm when he realized what they were doing, and watched through half-lidded eyes as they drew a first aid kit from the bag and pried it open. Normally, he managed to do such a thing on his own and in private but he didn’t have the energy to protest and simply allowed the figure to peel off his wool coat and outer shirt for better access to his more urgent injuries. 

Their first order of business was cleaning the dried blood that had run down from his nostril, wiped away with an antiseptic towelette whose smell made him wrinkle his nose. Throwing the used wipe back into its packaging, they wiped their hands on their jeans and donned a pair of latex gloves before opening a packet of alcohol wipes to scrub away the blood caked on his shoulder and dab at the edges of the laceration, making him wince and hiss no matter how gentle their touch was. The wound was further flushed with a bottle of water they hand in their bag and dried with a handkerchief produced from a pocket somewhere. With a cotton applicator, they spread antibiotic ointment in and around the lesion and thanked God under their breath that it wasn’t gaping so badly that it couldn’t be closed with butterfly closures. They would be hell to pick off later, incessantly pulling at his hairs, but at least it would be a few days before he needed to take them off— assuming he didn’t get impulsive and tear at them before the wound was fully healed. As a finishing touch, likely to ensure the surrounding skin didn’t get further irritated and that the stitches didn’t give way, the figure, who he was beginning to realize was a man around the same age as him, wrapped the area in a layer of gauze tape, cutting the end with the kit’s scissors and rearranging all of the items within so that it would close properly. 

“Thank you very much…” Yassen announced weakly, tongue hanging heavily enough in his mouth that he nearly slurred.

“You’re welcome.” The young man replied hastily, as if trying to avoid conversation and leave as quickly as possible.

Finally able to see his face more clearly, Yassen noted his deep-set sky blue eyes and his russet hair that was just beginning to grow past buzz-cut length. There were no lines in his face, save the flattening and thinning out of his mouth and the crease between his furrowed brows, and he was almost, dare he say, _handsome_. Many back home would probably look down on an Englishman as a potential prospect but something about this one was quite charming, even in his growing reluctance to remain here. Were he not currently incapacitated he would have considered asking him to dinner but his arm had begun to throb, as his other joints were being frozen stiff, and he had very little money left on him so it wouldn’t have a very fanciful dinner. And, of course, he didn’t want to take up too much more of this man’s time, at least in his present condition, especially as an odd feeling about him settled in his stomach.

“You look familiar.” He asserted, unable to put his finger on the reason why.

“You’re certainly familiar to me, _Yassen Gregorovich_.” The man barked in a low tone.

“Ah, so you know of me,” Yassen nodded sheepishly, “But I do not know of you. Nor why you would help me, given my reputation.”

“You may be a sick man, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve common decency.” The other confessed, half-defeatedly. 

“Thank you? That is very… Kind of you.” Yassen arched a brow at the backhanded compliment. 

“Now, let’s forget that this ever happened and that I was here.” The man commanded, rising to his feet, closing his bag, and turning on his heel to walk away. 

“Until we meet again, Персик!” Yassen cheerily called after him, already too invested in him to let him go _that_ easily. 

— ➳♥︎ —

**July 2007**

**Jerusalem, Israel**

He had tried his best _not_ to meet again. Had it been anyone else, helping them with their wounds would have been nothing more than his moral duty, but this time weighed on his conscience, waiting in a limbo and pondering whether or not to turn into regret. A dozen times over in briefings he had been shown the assassin’s face, always a suspect even in the least likely of cases, and been told to avoid him at all costs, and what did he do? Not just look at him, but make _skin-to-skin contact_ and help him with an ailment, and, even worse, held a short _conversation_ with him. Thank heavens, Blunt and Jones hadn’t questioned his tardiness to the meeting that day or he would have already been on a pyre. However, he had begun to drive himself a little paranoid by continuously thinking he had seen glimpses of the Russian all around him everywhere he went and it was honestly beginning to make him a little sick. Which is why a part of him died inside when he was fully greeted by the man in the middle of Jerusalem a few months after they first met. 

MI6 had sent him out there in order to make sure the effects of the skirmish on the Gaza Strip in the middle of June were dying down, and while the dust of the Fatah-Hamas conflict was far from settling, there didn’t appear to be any new clashes arising just yet. After triple checking that Gaza was not yet going to erupt in flames or gunfire, he decided to view Tel Aviv and Jerusalem for his own amusement, going against his orders not to stray from his mission. He couldn’t remember the last time he had time for himself, having devoted all his time and energy to work, so he figured that Blunt could piss off if he was going to be mad about it. Shopping wasn’t exactly his thing, and bringing home any souvenirs for his family would probably blow his occupation cover, but at least there was nice scenery on his walk around town and the summer Israeli heat was comforting to his constantly sore muscles. He almost had to admit he was enjoying himself until it was ruined by a shadowy silhouette stalking towards him not long after he took a seat in the Jahanon Bar and ordered lunch. 

“Hello, Персик,” The figure chirped as he approached the table, “May I?”

“Go away— And stop calling me that.” Ian growled, dropping his face into his hands. 

“Do not be so mean, _Першка_.” Yassen pouted, upping the ante with the diminutive pet name. 

“Leave me alone.” Ian reiterated, keeping an eye on the line to the kitchen in hopes of being backed up on this cause. 

Yassen just fluttered his long lashes and ignored the plea, pulling out the chair in front of him and sitting down, lips curling into a smirk when Ian huffed at him, and told the exasperated waiter in perfect Hebrew that he was quite alright. Ian shook his head as he picked up his shakshouka filled malawach to take a bite and wrap his head around how he had once again walked into this situation. In his defense, the first time had been pure coincidence; he had been overseeing the arrest of the suspects involved in the plot to kill a British Muslim soldier and just happened to be strolling back to the discreet location where he had left his car when he stumbled across an injured man, only realizing halfway through helping him that it was the one person he needed to be avoiding. This time, _he_ was stumbled upon and was now caught between a rock and a hard place on what to do, resolving that if things were going to go south after this, at least he had had a good last meal. 

But, thus far, Yassen made no move to harm him, or even touch him for that matter, sitting there quietly and politely, as if he wasn’t interrupting what had been a peaceful meal. Ian refused to meet his eye, instead looking at his plate or anywhere in the restaurant that wasn’t his face, but halfway through his food he found one question tumbling inside his head and needed to work up the will to ask it, in spite of wanting to keep conversation and small talk as limited as possible. 

“What are you doing here?” He queried, swallowing hard to keep his food down.

“Trying to make conversation with my _friend_.” Yassen answered innocently. 

“Not _here_ , you twat. _Jerusalem_ , Israel period,” Ian snapped, face turning into a scowl, “You weren’t a part of Hamas’ takeover, were you?”

“ _What_? Of course not,” Yassen shook his head in disbelief, “I came to visit the West Bank and Herod the Great.”

“ _What?_ ” Ian’s brows raised so high they nearly touched his hairline.

“It is said they found King Herod’s tomb in the desert and I wanted to see it for myself.” Yassen explained, baffled by Ian’s shock. 

Ian couldn’t form a response to that, sitting there gaping as he absorbed the information. Yassen squinted at him as he tried to find where the dots were not connecting, letting out a soft “oh” when he had managed a decent wager. 

“I am _Jewish_ , Першка, and I do not think any Orthodox Christian would have any interest in a king of Judea,” He laughed, half to himself, “Besides, I have not had a mission in… A month? Perhaps two.”

“So no inciting fights for an employer?” Ian inquired, mainly for his own sake. 

“No, not as of late,” Yassen reassured him, “Though, I was in Turkey around the time of the protests in İstanbul and İzmir broke out, and tuned in to those in Karachi. Otherwise, I have done nothing of use— unless attending Old Boris’ funeral counts.” 

“Right, right.” Ian nodded, heat of embarrassment rising on his neck and leading him to cranking his mouth shut.

“I am not mad at your accusation, if that is why you are being weird.” Yassen conveyed after a few minutes of awkward silence. 

The heat now spread from Ian’s neck to his ears and Yassen leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest inquisitively. The curious look on his face made Ian’s appetite plummet, forcing him to push the plate away and mourn the half-eaten food, especially when the bill came. Out of an… Odd generosity, Yassen handed over his own new shekels to pay for it, soon standing and mumbling something about having taken up enough of his time and something else about catching a train. Ian blinked as he disappeared, trailing out of the restaurant and down the street like a true shadow, making him wonder how he wasn’t sweltering under the sun in his thick dark layers. Even worse, he began to speculate when they would next see each other. 

* * *

**March 2008**

**Sofia, Bulgaria**

**Oбе́д**.As if the messy Cyrillic scrawl wasn’t evident enough of its writer, the lack of a question mark and the scribble of a reservation time below the enlarged word made it a command rather than an invitation. ‘ _Subtlety at its finest_ ,’ he thought, sighing as he pondered whether to crumble up the note or hold onto it, if he dared to comply to the order that is. He didn’t want to know how its author got it to him nor wherever the Tavern Izbata was, because it didn’t matter; he couldn’t be paid good money to go to dinner with that little cretin who had apparently imprinted on him. But, he had to admit the sound of a free dinner was tempting and there was little he could do for his mission until the upcoming week, so, against his better judgement, he looked for the address when he found the time. 

From the outside, the restaurant was dull, easily blended into the rest of Sofia’s streets, looking not much different to the residential buildings surrounding it, save the large windows looking in. Bulbs in oil lamp-style cases lined the walls inside and lit the interior brighter than the growing dusk he was standing in outside. Noticing the figure perched in the corner of one of the long booths within the front room, he exhaled sharply and reminded himself he couldn’t back out now, given that he had made the effort to come halfway across the city. Curling his hands into fists in his overcoat, he hesitated a moment longer before stepping towards the entrance door and pulling its handle towards him, temporarily holding it for the couple strolling in directly behind him. Sliding past a stressed hostess, he crept towards the figure he had been peering at through the window— a man of dark, shaggy hair and long lashes fluttering around warm brown eyes, whose lips were now curling into a toothy grin at his approach. 

“Отдавна не сме се виждали.” He greeted, words rolling off his tongue easily due to their similarity to his native tongue. 

“И двамата знаем колко добре говорите английски.” Ian chastised as he pulled out the chair across the table, trying not to cringe at how stale and rusted his Bulgarian was.

“ _When in Rome, do as the Romans._ ” His… _date_ chirped and rested his elbow on the table, placing his cheek in his palm.

“We’re a long ways from Rome, Gregorovich.” Ian bit, leaning his forearms on the table’s edge and folding his hands together. 

“You wound me, Пержка,” Yassen whined, already sounding deflated, “Especially when you refer to me as so.” 

Ian ignored the griping, and more importantly the nickname, and began to survey the table before them. It seemed Yassen had ordered an appetizer while waiting for him to arrive, the board the sliced meat and cheeses rested upon taking up a sizable amount of the table’s surface. Still pouting, Yassen rolled a piece of pastirma into a spiral between his thumb and index finger, lamely chewing the end of it. His jaw was dotted with a handful of freckles, made easier to spot by a clean shave— no doubt done in preparation for whatever _this_ was— and it was obvious to Ian there were no creases or lines anywhere on his face, making it obvious that he _was_ just another young man like himself, but just so happened to be a very deadly one. The only crease was between his eyebrows as they furrowed while he squandered to redeem himself, giving the appearance that he was not familiar with socialization, let alone what could only be considered failed attempts at flirting. When he turned his head towards the nearest window to pick a subject from the street to flounder about, Ian’s own brows knitted together as he noted a bright pink line running down the side of his face. 

“What is _that_?” He asked, drawing a hand up to run his fingers over it. 

“An unfortunate mishap.” Yassen muttered, though unbothered by the touch. 

A million questions ran through Ian’s mind in that moment but they merely lingered at the back of his tongue, leaving him to instead caress the almost fully healed scar with his thumb, wondering whether it had been a bullet or shrapnel and how long ago he got it, nudging away the thought of needing to kick the ass of whoever did it. Yassen made no move to push him away— in fact, he was practically leaning into the hand holding his face, much like a cat leaning further into a pet. Ian’s hand remained for another minute or so until he flushed realizing how it might look to others, retracting his hand and causing Yassen to blink at him but say nothing more on the matter. Soon enough, a waiter came by to take their order and they chose the first menu items they saw— Yassen the cabbage dolmas and Ian the roasted lamb— before returning their gaze to each other. They equally opened their mouths several times to speak but slowly closed them, basking in the comfortable silence, even as their food materialized before them and they began to eat.

“How did you know I was here?” Ian queried with a mouth half full of food. 

“You are never far off my trail,” Yassen chuckled, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, “And I may have done a little digging.”

“Better question,” Ian started to reiterate, “Why are _you_ here?”

“Just a little mission. Nothing of importance.” Yassen assured him, taking another bite.

Ian stared at him, running recent global news back through his head to figure out what would be of any interest to someone who had the money to hire an assassin. Not MESSENGER, not Castro’s death, perhaps Kosovo’s independence (but that was a Serbian issue, not a Bulgarian one), or maybe even the Armenian riots (assuming he was skipping over there after this dinner). His brain spun like the wheel on _Wheel of Fortun_ e, cycling through every Bulgaria-related headline he had read as of late, until it landed on the most probable cause. 

“This is a rouse to distract me from stopping you interfering with Stanishev’s ratification of the Treaty of Lisbon, isn’t it?”

Yassen neatly set his fork on his plate and looked up at him with a glare that burned straight through his head. As many times as they had run into each other in the past year and had skirmishes amongst themselves, he had never once seen Yassen as quietly enraged as he was now, his frustration wafting off him and creating a dark haze around him. Part of Ian wanted to back down, admit that he was being accusatory, and make amends, but another part intended to stand its ground, self-assured that there could be no other explanation, unless he was planning something with local mob bosses but that was much less likely. What he didn’t expect was for Yassen to stand and grab his coat for his rebuttal. 

“I may be an assassin,” He growled in a hushed tone, “But unlike you, I am not a cold, calculating robot who only thinks about my next mission. I asked you here for your company, ты гребаный мудак.”

With that, he stormed off and Ian flinched at the slamming of the door, lowering his head as to not look at the stares he was receiving or to think about the “Иди на хуй” that would be yelled at him if he immediately followed. He tapped his nails restlessly on the table as he decided what to do and unsheathed his wallet, throwing all the levs he still had on the table and getting up from his seat while throwing on his coat in one swift motion. Luckily, Yassen hadn’t gotten very far, despite his ability to speed walk, and it was quite easy to catch up to him and firmly grasp his wrist. As he twisted around to bark some more, he was impeded from doing so with a kiss catching his lips and Ian’s free hand holding his face. Yassen quickly pulled away as he took a step back, snatching his wrist back and wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. 

“A kiss does not work as an apology, сволочь.” He hissed, looking more disgusted by the second. 

“I know, I know,” Ian answered, throwing his hands up defensively, “I just needed to get it out of my system before properly apologizing. I shouldn’t have assumed you had ulterior motives and should have just accepted the invitation and company.”

Yassen’s glower was still strong and unwavering, but he finally softened after a few minutes, making Ian’s heart unclench itself and allow him to breathe again. Yassen still didn’t look terribly happy but there was hope yet that he would cave and affirm the apology, which was all that he could ask for. As his scowl dissolved, he glanced away then glimpsed back up, now looking more determined than irritated, and Ian prayed that his face wasn’t going red. 

“I will accept the apology on one condition,” Yassen asserted, stepping into his personal space, “Kiss me again.”

— ➳♥︎ —

**March 2008**

**Sofia, Bulgaria**

**Continued**

The next morning he woke to unfamiliar sheets and an even more unfamiliar warmth curled around him. The duvet was pulled up enough to nearly cover his entire torso but he could still, through bleary eyes, see tufts of dark hair splayed against his chest and feel a warm cheek pressed to his bosom. Everything after the second kiss had become a blur and he could only remember vague impressions of returning to a hotel— not his own, mind you— and flash feelings of two bodies melding into one. ‘ _There has to be an award for shagging the world’s best assassin, right?_ ’ he thought, trying to keep his subsequent chuckle small and to himself as to not wake said assassin. However, the hands wrapped around his side soon curled their nails into his skin and Yassen’s head shifted to give him better access for pressing a kiss to Ian’s shoulder. Ian swallowed at the sensation and felt his ears burn slightly as Yassen’s chin rested upon the spot he just kissed and he slowly blinked at him. 

“Доброе утро.” He yawned, pushing himself up onto his hands for a proper kiss. 

Somehow, Ian could _still_ taste the wine he had barely sipped at dinner, despite having thought he kissed it out of his mouth. Yassen’s face was now prickled with tiny one-day old stubble but Ian paid it no mind as it rubbed against his skin, cupping the side of his face and caressing his cheek with his thumb. He even sat up a little ways and dragged Yassen down to him further, breathing sharply through his nose as his brain melted with the heat growing between them. Unfortunately, just as his free hand went to grip Yassen’s hip, his stomach growled quite loudly, ruining the moment and causing Yassen to sit back with a bellowing laugh erupting from the bottom of his ribcage. Ian just laid back down with a sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes as he waited for the howling to die down, a thought coming to mind as it gradually did. 

“I never did thank you for dinner last night.” He said, realizing they didn’t say much of anything while kissing each other senseless.

“It is nothing. I do not mind.” Yassen shook his head. 

“So you _won’t_ let me take you to breakfast, to pay the debt?” Ian smirked cheekily.

“Now, I did not say _that_.” Yassen pointed an eyebrow at him. 

“Will you?”

“Yes,” Yassen nodded after a moment, “Breakfast sounds… Nice.” 

Ian’s heart skipped a beat and he stayed languid a second longer before sitting up and beginning to kiss him again, finally managing a firm grasp on his hips, and using them to get him standing and lead him backwards into the bathroom. It was lucky that there were no clothes barring them from stepping back directly into the shower and allowing them to make it steamier in there than the hottest water setting, almost admiring each other too much to let the other scrub themselves down. As it was Yassen’s room, he dug out some clean attire from a duffel bag tucked in a discreet corner of them room once he had toweled himself off, but Ian was unbothered by his need to reuse the outfit he wore the night before— it had no outward stains and his own duffel bag had been packed lightly so he wouldn’t have had many options anyway. On their way down to the lobby, he took the time to admire the hotel’s grandeur, asking how he had managed to get a room in the Sofia Hotel Balkan of all places (“You forget how much money flows from the pockets of my clients.”) and having his question about dining in the hotel’s restaurant ignored. 

Presumably, the choosing of the Мекица и Кафе a ten minute walk away was in order to avoid suspicions, a choice Ian could not challenge if he wanted to, especially because it meant his hand was held and swung the entire way there. The Мекица и Кафе was built into a larger, all-encompassing building at a sharp angle and had stooled seating along the second floor window overlooking the street, Yassen tucking them into the corner attached to the wall, in spite of knowing how visible they would be there. Apparently having a bit of a sweet tooth, he ordered the banana and Nutella funnel cake, balancing it out with a black tea doused in milk, cinnamon, and ginger; Ian went a little more plain with a jam and cream cheese funnel cake, paired with an herbal tea. At one point, Yassen offered a sip of his tea and Ian scowled at the added spice from the cinnamon and ginger. 

“It is not _that_ bad.” Yassen chided, taking another sip himself. 

Ian tutted, only to feel a vibration against his leg seconds later and curiously dug into one of the front pockets of his jeans to fish out his only non-burner phone, the one he kept in order to keep contact with his family. It was a Motorola Razr V3 he had managed to snag in 2004 and had kept in moderate condition since then, being the subject of many of his prayers in the hopes of keeping the one thing that mattered more than his work in his life. Flipping open the lid with the pad of his thumb, a text message notification was highlighted at the top of the screen with the contact name JOHN above a preview of the message. He selected the message with the circular pad and glanced over the whole message, including a photo of a toddler. The message read, “I think Alex has a knack for fishing. See you soon XO,” and he found himself smiling at the childish grin on the small platinum blonde boy’s face in the picture as he held up a decent sized perch. He only caught wind of his expression when he glanced up and found Yassen’s brows raised. 

“Who is the boy?” He queried out of a mix of courtesy and genuine interest.

“My nephew.” Ian replied, watching the extent of his tongue, and passed the phone over for better observation. 

“Cute kid.” Yassen complimented as he handed it back.

“He’s a sweet little lad,” Ian nodded, now noticing a spot of Nutella streaked at the corner of Yassen’s mouth, “Hold on, you have some—”

He lifted his napkin to dab away the spot, thinking nothing of the gesture other than general civility, and furrowed his brows when he felt Yassen tense up. This was the first time since they had met that he had seen Yassen blush so furiously— although, he couldn’t quite understand why, given the more scandalous things they had done in the past twelve hours. But then again, Yassen had always been an odd character that he couldn’t quite place so perhaps it wasn’t for him to know, and he made no move to push it further, allowing him to avert his gaze to his tea then the street once he had unfrozen. When it came time to pay their bill, it dawned on Ian that he had quite literally thrown all his levs away while paying for their half-eaten dinner, leaving Yassen to sigh and rustle through a beaten up wallet and his coat pockets in unexpected fashion (Ian would have taken him for the dine-and-dash type). Once paid, Yassen beckoned him to follow, instinctively intertwining their hands and pressing together to fight the late winter chill as they wandered towards the City Garden. 

**Author's Note:**

> translations, translations, translations:
> 
> — **Персик** = "Peach" (Russian)
> 
> — **Oбе́д** = "Dinner" (Russian)
> 
> — **Отдавна не сме се виждали** = “Long time no see.” (Bulgarian)
> 
> — **И двамата знаем колко добре говорите английски** = “We both know how well you can speak English.” (Bulgarian)
> 
> — **ты гребаный мудак** = “You fucking asshole” (Russian)
> 
> — **Иди на хуй** = “Go fuck yourself” (Russian)
> 
> — **сволочь** = “Jerk” (Russian)
> 
> — **Доброе утро** = “Good morning” (Russian)


End file.
